Bless 'Em All
by RobinRocks
Summary: Six days until Christmas. Six USUK/UKUS prompts to count them down - oh, and you guys were the ones that picked them. All aboard the HMS USUK Failboat for some lulzy - and not so lulzy - shipping fun!
1. In The Mood

Season's greetings, everyone, and thank you and welcome to the USUK Christmas Oneshot Collection which is going to have killed me by Christmas Eve. XD Many of you will know, I'm sure, that five of the six stories which will be posted this week (...assuming I manage to get them all done! T.T) were chosen by **111** very kind FFNetters who voted on the poll displaying twelve fic prompts on my profile over the month of November. To everyone who voted, thank you so much – I hope at least one of your choices got in here! 111 voters was far more than I was expecting, especially since I didn't formally advertise the poll in any ANs, so I was extremely happy with your enthusiastic response! I really hope I'll manage to get them all done. Of course I'd planned to get them all done before this week began but I've been busy and I'm _still_ busy and so far I've only managed to write two and a bit. Ughhhh, RL. GTFO.

**About the collection title/fic titles:** All of the titles are songs from the WWII period which I have done my best to match to the themes. As for the overall title, _Bless 'Em All_, this was a song made famous in 1940 by George Formby, a banjo-ukelele-playing unlikely superstar of the wartime era who hailed from Lancashire, England. The song was originally written in 1917 under the title of _Fuck 'Em All_ (with different lyrics). I chose this song as the overall title of the fic collection because of its connotations of _A Christmas Carol_, in which Tiny Tim's famous words are "God bless us, every one" on Christmas Day. :)

_In The Mood_: A Glenn Miller staple released in 1939, this instrumental song remains one of the most famous and enduring sounds of WWII. If you haven't heard it... well, you actually have, I assure you. XD

SO. Without further ado, let us begin our Christmas Week Countdown! :) We'll start simple with a plain old canon fic – which incidentally won itself a landslide first place victory with **72 votes**.

In The Mood

"Take your hands off me."

America slid his hands off England's shoulders with a low growl.

"Really?" he drawled. "Are you gonna be like this all night?"

England snorted.

"You know I can't stand it when you drape yourself all over me," he replied. "You weigh a tonne, to begin with."

"Tch, you can handle it – and like you'd have me say otherwise. We _are_ at war, after all."

"Are we?" England knotted his tie. "I'd no idea."

America actually laughed.

"Oh, man, kitty has claws tonight, huh?"

"Kitty _always_ has claws." England looked at him pointedly. "I mean it, America. I know this is a social affair but that's no excuse for our regular protocol to slip. We get away with a lot, being who we are, but I'd rather not push our luck."

"Ice queen," America lamented. "And we're being separated in January, too. I have to haul my ass back out to the Pacific and you're... uh, where are you going again?"

"Burma." England began trying to pat his perpetual sex-hair down. "It's going to be an ugly affair, I quite assure you. Guerrilla warfare, honestly." He gave an envious sigh. "At least _you'll_ have a ship beneath your feet."

"England—"

"Still," England interrupted briskly, "we've a job to do. Nothing to do but to grit our teeth and get on with it."

America grinned.

"Not tonight, though," he chirped. "Tonight we don't have to worry about a thing – just great music, great dancing and great company."

"Mmm – and as to that last one, again, please keep your hands to yourself. Of course our bosses _know_ but I still don't want them to have to be... _subjected_ to it."

America rolled his eyes.

"England, they practically chased us together."

"That doesn't mean they want to watch you drool all over my face."

"Fine." America sighed it. "My hands are tied. Figuratively, of course."

"Of course," England echoed; he glanced at America, who had at least pried himself out of his beloved bomber jacket and shined his buttons and boots. He always looked good in his dress uniform, mostly because it was in pristine condition due to him never wearing it. "You've cleaned up nicely tonight, by the way."

America's expression brightened again as he smiled.

"Thanks. You too." His smile quirked mischievously. "I'd give up on your hair, though. The damage is done and your hair doesn't behave itself at the best of times."

"I know," England groaned. He licked his palm and dragged it firmly over a wayward spike curling up just over his left temple; it flattened for about half a second before bouncing up again. "Dash it all, perhaps I should just oil it all back..."

"And look like those young whippersnappers you're always complaining about?" America laughed. "Let the boys have their weird fashion and we'll just stick to what we know best. After all, you and I remember powdered wigs."

"I'm going to do it," England threatened, wrenching open the dresser and beginning to rummage around. "Where's that bloody oil?"

"We used it for more... uh, pressing issues, I think." America caught his wrists. "Seriously, you look fine. Don't sweat it, okay?"

"I _will_ "sweat it" because I look downright—"

America kissed him, firmly cutting him off. England pulled at first, apparently determined to finish his sentence, but America held on to him and eventually he gave up, kissing back. They stood for a long moment, enjoying what was likely to be (much to America's chagrin) the final kiss of the night, both smelling of the same cheap cologne, and hands started wandering, America's creeping and spreading into England's hair to cause it further trauma, England's sliding over his chest and down to his waist and then—

There was a knock at the door, brisk and impatient, and they sprang apart.

"N-now that's what I meant!" England scolded breathlessly, prodding America in the chest. "No more of that tonight."

"Yeah, yeah, I heard you the first time," America replied drolly as England turned. "Get the door, good-lookin'." He smacked England's backside as he walked away – which, of course, made him wheel indignantly, finger wagging.

"Now, you see, this sort of behaviour is exactly why your troops have such a bad reputation!" he exclaimed crossly. "Christ, I sincerely hope you don't treat women this way! I suppose it's a good thing that you only shag me – at least _I_ know how to put up with your dreadful attitude. Honestly, you can be such a pig at times that I really don't know where I went wrong—"

There was another, louder knock at the door and England cut himself off, tripping over himself to scramble to the door and wrench it open. Churchill was waiting on the other side of it, both hands resting atop his cane and a cigar clamped between his teeth.

"Sir," England said breathlessly, nodding to his boss. He jabbed his finger in America's direction. "Don't think I'm finished with you, brat."

America arched both eyebrows nonchalantly before turning his attention to Churchill and saluting him.

"Evening, sir," he said brightly. "We're ready to go when you are."

"Very good," Churchill grumbled. "We oughtn't keep the president waiting." He looked at England, flapping his hand towards him. "Do comb your hair, won't you? You look like you just got out of bed."

England flushed as Churchill shot a sly look at oblivious America.

"And you sound like it, too."

—

The hall was packed full of soldiers, WACs, Wrens, nurses, military doctors and allsorts of operations personnel, all dancing and talking and clustered around tables. The band wasn't Glenn Miller or Benny Goodman or anyone, just a plain military brass formation, but they knew all the hits and played them very well. The huge room was decked out with Christmas decor on every surface and fixture, wreaths and mistletoe and holly and paper garlands and electric lights, crowned with a large Christmas tree on the stage, green and glittering and guarded by a white angel perched in its topmost branches. There wasn't all that much alcohol, given the rationing, but it flowed freely enough and the atmosphere was warm and spiced with seasonal cheer.

It was a nice escape from the front and the home-front, a reminder that there were still good things about humanity, that friendship and love did still exist in the world, however well-hidden they seemed to be these days.

Despite the festivity, England was rather sulky, sitting at their small corner table picking absently at a mince pie between monosyllabic answers, slugs of whisky and self-consciously trying to smooth his hair down. America, sick of being rebuffed and angrily shaken off, had gotten tired of him early on and was drifting about between any tables of people who would have him; though came back briefly to inquire why England was scowling at him so much and did it have anything to do with him sitting with those three RAF pilots from Cambridge?

England told him in as many words to piss off and America shrugged and disappeared for a good hour, during which England positively wilted, muttering to himself as Churchill and Roosevelt made pleasant small-talk between themselves and more or less ignored him.

America eventually came back, more than a little tipsy from his rounds with just about every other person in the room, and wound his arms around England's neck, nuzzling against his face.

"Missed you," he whined. "Shoulda... come with me."

"Unhand me at once!" England ordered, prising him off and shoving him into his seat. "Good God, sometimes I don't know if you're deaf or just stupid."

America shrugged, reached over and took England's decimated mince pie, sinking his teeth into it; he crumpled the foil wrapper and flicked it at England's temple, making him wince when it hit him dead on.

"Ha!" America said with his mouth full of mince pie. "Bullseye."

"_I'm going to flay you alive_," England ground out furiously, rubbing at his temple.

Roosevelt smiled and Churchill raised his hand to call for more whisky.

—

"Don't you boys want to dance?" Roosevelt asked, glancing between them over the rim of his glass.

"No," England slurred.

"Yes!" America sprang up, knocking over his glass; he fumbled to right it, slapping his wet palm against England's shoulder. "C'mon, c'mon, let's go!"

"I don't think so." England composed himself enough to straighten, gripping at his glass. "There are plenty of girls – go and pester one of them."

"I thought you didn't want me talking to girls?" America teased. "I thought I was a pig you didn't know where you'd gone wrong with?"

"You are."

"So I guess you'd better come supervise me!" America seized England's arm and tugged, all but hauling him out of his seat. "Keep an eye on me, you know? _Both_ eyes, even!"

"Stop manhandling me!" England righted himself, swaying a little bit. "I don't want to dance with you. I wouldn't dance with you if we were the last two people on earth!"

America laughed.

"If we were the last two people on earth," he reasoned, "I guess we'd have more to worry about than dancing. But! We're not – so let's go."

"I said no, you absolute brat!" England seethed, wrenching his wrist free. "Go on, bugger off."

"Me_ow_." America stuck out his tongue at him. "You're gonna be leaving some serious scratch-marks down my back tonight, huh, kitty-kitty?"

England stiffened.

"You've some nerve," he said icily, "insinuating such things—"

"Seriously?" America pointed wildly between Roosevelt and Churchill, the latter of whom arched an eyebrow amusedly. "You think they're stupid? Like I said, they practically _threw_ us together—"

"_Enough_!" England shoved America aside, storming past him. "I've had enough of this. You are _unbelievable_ sometimes—"

"_You're_ unbelievable!" America flung back, becoming irritated. "Acting like it's some huge big secret!" He pointed violently at their unfazed bosses once more. "He knows, he knows, _everyone_ knows – so stop acting like you wouldn't touch me with a ten foot pole and come and dance with me!"

England simply shot him an icy look before turning on his heel and stalking off. America floundered for a moment, waving his arms as his tongue stumbled over dozens of possibilities to call after him. At length, he simply looked towards Roosevelt and Churchill and exhaled deeply and frustratedly, shrugging.

Churchill tipped his glass.

"That, my dear boy," he said archly, "was a challenge – one I wouldn't let him get away with if I were you."

—

"I wish they wouldn't put up such a front," Roosevelt sighed. "I can't say I... _approve_, exactly, of their liaison but it's so good for relations that it would be shooting ourselves in the foot to forcibly separate them." He examined the bottom of his glass thoughtfully. "With that said, I'd like to know who they're putting on this little act for. They might be all over each other in private but it doesn't look very good for them to be at each other's throats in front of the men."

Churchill snorted.

"The men are far better behaved," he replied gruffly, "so I shouldn't worry about them following suit. I've yet to see any of the soldiers use language as foul towards one another as England subjects your poor lad to."

Roosevelt raised his eyebrows.

"I wouldn't be so quick to diminish America of any fault. He delights in winding people up – and no-one better than England. He's been trying to ignite jealousy with his behaviour this evening, make no mistake." He huffed. "Honestly, I could crack both of their heads together."

"Mmm." Churchill lit himself a cigar, taking the first puff of it silently and thoughtfully. "Then what would you prefer, Mr Roosevelt? For them to be like us – friends in public and with knives in each other's backs in private?"

Roosevelt gave a sharp smile.

"I agree that their bond is not compromised by politics as ours is," he said, "but then all the more reason for them to get along, surely. I'm so tired of their petty squabbling in front of us."

Churchill shrugged.

"At least there isn't a bloody Russian inserted between them to balls things up," he pointed out acidly.

Roosevelt nodded.

"As I said," he repeated dryly, "all the more reason for them to get along."

—

"Here, kitty-kitty-kitty." America wound himself around the back door, espying England sitting on an empty ammunition crate outside with a cigarette clamped between cold fingers. "Have you retracted your claws?"

"I will after I've done permanent damage to your face." England was quiet for a moment, taking another inhale on his smoke, before giving an impatient snort. "Are you serious? I thought you were at least coming out here to apologise for your awful behaviour – but instead you're just going to keep on—"

"_My_ awful behaviour?" America cut in. "What about _your_ awful behaviour?"

"Forgive me," England said coldly, "but I don't recall insulting you."

"Uh, yeah, that's because you insulted _everyone_! You act like I'm not good enough for you and you wouldn't even _dream_ of havin' a wild tumble with me and you insult our bosses' intelligence by trying to stick to that story when it's like _duh_ you'd have a wild tumble with me, we do it pretty much every night of the damn week and sometimes during the day, too—"

"Now wait just a—"

"So I'll apologise for calling you a scratch-cat after you apologise for being a huge jerk."

"You were trying to make me jealous!"

"You were being a little bitch!"

England threw his cigarette on the ground and crushed it with the heel of his boot.

"America, I'm not some sweetheart you picked up back on the farm at home," he snapped. "You can't have me sitting in your lap in public and you jolly well know it. I told you before we came out tonight to behave yourself and you didn't!" He folded his arms. "How else do you expect me to react?"

"You could at least be _nice_! I told you some of my best jokes and you didn't even pretend to laugh!" America sighed crossly. "You know, you're a pretty horrible person sometimes. I know you're kinda drunk right now but that doesn't change the fact."

England was quiet for a long moment.

"I know," he said after a very long pause, his voice low. "I know I am."

"Good," America replied shortly, turning away again to head back into the building. "Well, now that that's settled, come and see me inside when you're ready to get on your knees and grovel for forgiveness."

He reached for the handle, meaning to slam the door behind him, and paused only when he heard England give a sudden unexpected sniffle.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa!" America wheeled again (a little too quickly, almost overbalancing and catching himself on the doorframe) and pointed accusingly at England. "Are you crying?"

"No," England choked out. His head was bowed and his shoulders were shaking.

"You _are_!" America bounded towards him in three steps, flapping his arms. "No, no drunken crying! Unfair play!" He took England's face and made him look up at him; his cheeks were wet. "God _damn_ it! Now I feel guilty!"

"I'm sorry," England whined. "I-I know I'm not... not very nice s-sometimes—"

"Okay, well, I'm sorry I made you cry," America replied hurriedly. "And that I called you a nasty scratchy kitty-cat. Like, a lot. Stop crying, okay?"

"I'm so terrible to you a-and you just... just take it all in your stride—"

"Oh, man, you're drunker than I thought," America grumbled as England clutched at him. "You must be in Stage Two. You know, first you get bitter and pissy and you _sound_ like you're being logical but you're not really and then you get to Stage Two and start crying over stupid stuff that happened like a million years ago and then..." America snapped his fingers. "And then Stage Three, where you get really happy and giggly and kinda horny!"

"—I suppose it's no w-wonder that you broke away from me b-back then—"

"Yup!" America seized England by the waist, threw him over his shoulder and straightened up, striding back towards the building. "Let's go get a couple more glasses down you, then! Stage Three is always my favourite!"

—

Two rounds later and they were swaying against one another on the dancefloor to the slow and serene swell of Glenn Miller's _Moonlight Serenade_. England had his cheek pressed firmly against America's shoulder and was more or less leaning his weight on him, unable to stand up straight on his own anymore. Every now and then one of them lost their balance a little bit and they both stumbled, righting themselves with raucous laughter quite unbecoming of the atmosphere.

"Hey." America tapped England on the arm and pointed upwards when he had his drowsy attention; there was a sprig of mistletoe fixed to one of the lights directly above them. "Look at that."

England squinted at it.

"Mistletoe," he affirmed seriously.

"Yeah!" America nodded happily. "You know what we have to do, right?"

England nodded gravely.

"Absolutely."

"_What_, then?"

"Well, get it down, of course."

"You got it. We can put it on our table! It'll look lovely!"

"Right, well, you lift me up and I'll grab it."

"Masterful military strategics!" America bent to lift England up under his thighs, pushing him up to reach the measly bit of mistletoe taped to the light fixture. "Get it, get it!"

"Hold me still!" England scolded, pressing one hand to America's shoulder as he strained to grasp the sprig. "And lift me higher, I can't quite reach it—"

America obeyed but, in his inebriated state, holding England's weight so high overbalanced him; he staggered back three steps and then fell, England managing to seize the mistletoe just before he went down with him and they landed in a heap in the midst of all the slow-dancing couples.

"Victory!" America whooped, holding the bedraggled clipping, still clutched in England's hand, aloft.

The whole light fixture came crashing down on top of them as _Moonlight Serenade_ finished with a moodful flourish.

—

The crushed bit of mistletoe sat like a trophy in the middle of the table, long forgotten. Churchill, on his fourth cigar, rolled his eyes as Roosevelt gave an uncomfortable swallow and leaned across the table.

"Uh, perhaps you boys should..." The president frowned, glancing helplessly at Churchill for a moment. "...Head on to bed?"

No answer.

"I mean, you've already destroyed half of the room by being ridiculous and now... well—"

"Your behaviour is bloody inappropriate," Churchill cut in drolly, "but of course don't mind us at all."

They didn't. Nestled up together in the very corner of the booth, America and England were very drunk and very interested in one another and not much else. England was straddling America's lap and there were hands in hair and fingers loosening ties and toying with buckles and buttons and mouths against each other and on jawlines and throats and lower still.

Roosevelt cleared his throat.

"Boys, come on now," he said weakly. "This isn't very... ah, very..."

Churchill smirked, taking a drag on his cigar, before flagging over a waitress and asking for a jug of water.

"I can see this is the first time you've had to deal with this," he said to the president as the waitress trotted off. "I credit myself with rather more experience – after all, they've been at it since the Great War and this certainly isn't the first time they've forgotten _my_ company."

Roosevelt arched an eyebrow.

"And your experience is to sober them up by making them drink water?" He sounded sceptical.

Churchill snorted.

"Good lord, no," he drawled. "I've found that they don't take kindly to being drenched just when they're getting in the mood, though. It sort of kills it a bit, I suppose."

They both shot a glance at their nations; America had England's belt off and was opening up his jacket, their mouths fused together the whole while.

"I hope that waitress hurries," Churchill went on nonchalantly, drumming his fingers on the tabletop. "Still, Mr Roosevelt, you _did_ say you wished they'd be nicer to each other in front us and the men." He gestured towards them; England was fumbling clumsily with America's topmost button and they were both giggling. "There you have it."

"Indeed." Roosevelt rolled his eyes and reached for his glass. "Next time I'll be more careful what I wish for."

* * *

Whoo, one down, five to go! As this was the First Place Winner in the poll, I can't help but feel that this was the one everyone was waiting for – so I hope you all enjoyed it!

It's all downhill from here, u gaiz. (jk, jk~)

I was actually very surprised by some of the prompts which made it into the Top 5 – and, incidentally, rather surprised at some of the ones which lost out! The "ghost" prompt, featuring wounded RAF pilot Arthur and recently-killed US Air Force pilot Alfred, was at the second spot for almost three weeks and then somehow got knocked off and finished at about eighth! O.o It was really interesting checking on the poll from day to day and seeing what was where – and I think the Final Five, though not necessarily the Top 5 that I would have picked myself (though two of my favourites did get in at Spots One and Two, so I can't complain!), do end up offering us quite a bit of diversity in theme and genre, so hopefully there will be something here for everyone!

Please come back for the second place winner tomorrow and thanks for reading! :3

RobinRocks

xXx


	2. I Don't Want To Walk Without You

Wow, an overwhelming response already! Thank you so much, everyone! I'm really happy everyone seemed to enjoy yesterday's winning prompt. :3 Thanks to: **andthenshesaid, LovelyToMeetYou, absolutelywounderful, TheWonderBunny, splitDEVOTION, Jenna, HalloweenPumpkin, sabacat, bleach-otaku, Hada-Fiction, The Clock Strikes One, This Could Theoretically Be Sparta, Lamashtar Two, hetafan, Red Hot Holly Berries, RockBabi **and **Warpath Grizzly**!

Unfortunately, John Lewis – the department store with horrendous Christmas hours I'm working in at the moment – has kicked my poor prompt collection in the teeth already and due to me not managing to finish the second place winner last night after work, instead you're going to have to settle for the third place winner instead (which I wrote in advance, idek...). Hopefully I can get the second place one done for tomorrow!

SO... In third place with **52 votes**, it's the Spades AU; and a version of WWII set in the Cardverse featuring King!Alfred and Queen!Arthur.

_I Don't Want To Walk Without You:_ It was written in 1941 by Frank Loesser, who also wrote the lyrics for Broadway hit _Guys and Dolls _and, coincidentally, the song _Baby, It's Cold_ _Outside_.

I Don't Want To Walk Without You

The wedding was a rush job, a hasty settlement to conclude discussions which had long been in the making. Whilst the Kingdom of Spades had been officially neutral throughout the aggression, its support of the Allied cause of the kings of Diamonds and Clubs, Francis Bonnefoy and Ivan Braginsky, had made it an enemy of the Hearts and their designs – and all this without taking into account the financial backing the current King of Spades, Alfred Jones, had been pouring into the war effort of former Spades monarch Arthur Kirkland.

On the seventh of December, Queen of Hearts Kiku Honda attacked the King of Spades' "neutral" fleet. On the eighth, he declared war on him. On the eleventh, the King and Jack of Hearts, Ludwig Beilschmidt and Feliciano Vargas, rallied the cause and wrote up their own declarations and the entire Kingdom of Hearts was at war with the Kingdom of Spades.

War leaders met and talks went underway. The current King of Spades sat with the former King of Spades in a private room and they played bored games of chess with one another whilst waiting for their war ministers, Roosevelt and Churchill, to come to a decision. At a time like this, the verdict could, of course, only be an alliance.

By the evening of the twelfth, they were told that they were to be married, their lands merged and their resources pooled.

They were married at midnight and at war.

—

Alfred remembered being very small and wrapped up in blue velvets and silks in Arthur's arms. Arthur had been the King of Spades for over three centuries, at one point growing to be the overlord of an Empire which far outreached the jagged smallness of his original kingdom. Alfred's own vast lands had once been a part of that Empire – but time and war had taken their toll and bit by bit the pieces had been snatched away from Arthur once more, beginning with the archaic _America_, now known as the Kingdom of Spades. Eventually Arthur grew so out of pocket, unable to keep up with the demands of what he had left of his decimated legacy, that he withdrew completely from the world and handed over his crown to Alfred, who gladly took it and his title and gleefully ruled with an incomplete court. At his side he had only a Jack, Wang Yao, and no queen to speak of.

As for Arthur, he had become reclusive for decades, occasionally surfacing for a war before vanishing again. Before _this_ war – which had quickly gotten out of hand, proving to be more than Arthur and his few exhausted resources could handle – Alfred hadn't seen him at all for a good long while.

It was a bit disconcerting, then, that Arthur didn't seem all that bothered either way about marrying Alfred. He had simply shrugged and nodded at the announcement and signed his agreement without complaint. He had certainly changed an awful lot over the years, barely anything of what Alfred remembered of him from his childhood, from the days of Arthur's own imperial glory, when he had been confident and splendid and powerful. Now he simply seemed subdued and uninterested, barely holding Alfred's gaze before glancing away elsewhere.

Alfred was disappointed, to say the least. He had been supporting Arthur for years, proud of him and his resilience. He had hoped for a little more emotion from him given that Alfred was finally to become his belligerent ally, given that they were about to be married and irreversibly merged.

He couldn't help but think that the Arthur who had been King would have been more fun to have as a Queen than this jaded, penniless Cinderella.

—

They married, attended by Roosevelt and Churchill and Yao, in a tiny Spades Chapel big enough to hold no more than six people; it was pitch dark, lit only by candles and the glow of the moon through the windows of blue stained glass. They were both dressed in finery, Alfred's rather finer than Arthur's, all shades of azure and sky and midnight, and they knelt side by side on cushions of the same. Alfred's plain crown, little more than a band studded with a scattering of sapphires, sat low at his brow exactly as Arthur had once worn it, while Arthur had the wide hood of his velvet cloak up; deep blue and lined with fur. Their cold hands were wound together as they recited their vows, which held little interest in honouring and obeying and loving and instead spoke of promises to be loyal and to support and to destroy.

They exchanged rings, glowing bands of blue glass, and Arthur seemed to admire his in the flickering light as he withdrew his hand. However, when Alfred took him by the elbows to kiss him, to finish the ceremony, he turned his face away. Alfred exhaled irritably and kissed him on the cheek instead, slipping down his hood; and then he took him by the hands and helped him up, leading him out of the small chapel in silence.

The night was a cold one and they had much to do before morning.

—

Given his lack of interest, Alfred had worried that it would be difficult to get Arthur to consummate the marriage; but his former king and new queen put up no resistance, allowing Alfred to lead him to the room that had been specially prepared for their use on their wedding night.

Most of their things were already at the Front, sent on in advance of them, and Alfred's armed forces, too, had been moved on ahead that morning to join their new countrymen. This room didn't have a bed in it, instead lain out across the floor with layers and layers of pillows and thick furs and blankets. There was a roaring fire in the grate and the chandelier was lit with thin tapers, the dancing lights making Arthur's hair burn brighter than his new crown.

Alfred removed their crowns first because he was beginning to grow afraid that Arthur thought that there wasn't much more to it than that; and they left their blue clothes emblazoned with embroidered spades scattered only at the very edges of the makeshift mattress so that the responsibilities of has-been kings and brand-new queens stayed well out of it. Arthur relaxed, perhaps resigned, and Alfred carried him to the heart of their bridal bed. He leaned over him, eying him sprawled naked on that thick fur, and chose carefully the place he would leave the Mark of Spades on him.

Alfred's own was on the underside of his right wrist – a king's was always given by the previous king at the handover ceremony and Alfred's flared blue over his veins where Arthur had kissed him. A queen's, in contrast, was given by the king at their consummation. Alfred hesitated, deciding, and Arthur held up his wrist as though trying to make it easy for him; Alfred pushed it aside, looking at Arthur's chest and belly, at his collarbone and shoulders, before settling for the front his throat, too high to be hidden completely by any collar.

The blue blushed guiltily beneath his lips and stayed there and there was no longer any need for crowns.

After it was over, Alfred gathered his breath on his back and held on to the shimmer of their first lovemaking, one hand splayed across his own chest and his other arm tucked behind his head. Arthur turned away on his side, the rug covering them slipping to the curve of his waist.

"Are you alright?" Alfred asked softly, glancing at his back. "I didn't... hurt you?"

"I'm fine." Arthur sighed it. "...This could have been the other way around, you know. Once upon a time. I was the King of Spades, after all. You could have been my queen."

Alfred gave a hum of agreement.

"Sure enough," he said lightly. "But you never proposed."

"I don't think it would have done either of us much good." Arthur gave another sigh. "I just wanted to say it."

"Don't _you_ want to be _my_ queen, Arthur?" Alfred reached and put his hand to Arthur's slender back, rubbing little circles on his spine. His skin was warm from the fur and fire and fucking.

Arthur was quiet for a long moment.

"We both know this has nothing to do with wanting," he said in a low voice. He shook off Alfred's touch.

"Arthur—"

"Go to sleep, Alfred," Arthur said gently, jadedly. "We've to get up early in the morning to head to the Front." He gave a cold little laugh. "Don't forget about the bloody war, after all."

Ah, how easy it would be to forget it, too, for Alfred, who had not yet set a royal foot amidst it. This final night of freedom, where he lay burning only with a sense of duty, his tongue white-hot with wedding vows, was perfection; the fire cracked, flaring warmly at the hearth, and the candles dimmed and snow began to flutter outside the narrow blue windows. Without a crown or fine garments or even a title, nestled in the safety of his bridegroom bower, he gathered up his trembling queen in his arms and cuddled him close.

All of Arthur smelt of the bloodshed – a scent even velvet robes and furs for bedding and the coveted Mark of Spades would not rinse from his skin.

—

Once they were settled at the Front, Alfred did not see very much of Arthur at all. Having already been at war for two years, Arthur was well-practiced at the rituals of this particular conflict and easily buried himself back beneath paperwork and preparations, leaving it up to Churchill and Yao to brief Alfred, Roosevelt and the new blood on the planned push towards Occupied Diamonds' territory in the New Year. Alfred trained and ate and even slept with his own men, for so much of Arthur's tent was taken up by equipment and maps that there was no room to share it with his king (not that he made any effort to _make_ some room). Alfred felt a little rejected, of course, but tried not to let it bother him, throwing himself into the busy, bustling life at the new combined Spades Front.

For almost two weeks, the pace of existence was furious, with supplies and weapons and men coming and going all hours of the day, maps and plans being drawn up and sent on, telephone calls being made here, there and everywhere and combat and machinery practices taking place at absolutely any given time.

And then, suddenly, on December 25th, everything stopped. Alfred, who hadn't been expecting the abrupt lull, was rather stunned by the makeshift outdoor chapel for the morning service, laid out in the snow with stones, he discovered on his way to the canteen; and was pleasantly surprised by the helpings that day, almost double rations. No-one trained at all – soldiers sat around in groups and played games or talked or sang songs or shared photographs; and out, too, came the stashed bottles of booze, passed about in circles huddled around small fires. Alfred and three of his men accompanied a small cluster of Arthur's veterans who claimed to know where there were as many chestnuts as you could pick; and they returned with a generous haul in an old sack, leaving it in the middle of the camp for the men to roast over the fire in their tin mugs.

There was no sign whatsoever of Arthur.

A quick interrogation of Churchill informed Alfred that Arthur was still holed up in his tent, apparently too busy for the festivities – as he had been these previous two years, so it was hardly worth Alfred trying to coax him out. Alfred waved off the challenge and marched straight off to the lone tent right at the back of the camp – the forbidden chambers of his own queen, whose bed he had shared only once. He made no ceremony about his entrance, simply stepping in and pressing his hands to his hips at the usual sight of Arthur in his royal blue uniform standing before a vast map pinned to the canvas wall of the tent with a handful of little blue flags with Spades on them, contemplating.

"Hey, queenie," he drawled. "Merry Christmas."

"Alfred, I'm busy," Arthur said wearily, not turning to him.

"I can see that." Alfred crossed to the desk, perching on the edge of it and folding his arms. "Have you even eaten today?"

"I've had some tea."

"That's not what I asked," Alfred said, frowning. "Arthur, it's like... six in the evening. You have to eat something, for god's sake."

"Later." Arthur said it distractedly, stretching to stick one of his little flags into King Francis' Occupied territory.

"No, _now_!" Alfred stood again abruptly, losing his patience very quickly. He honestly found Arthur to be very trying; he hadn't been alone with him at all but for their consummation and he didn't know how to deal with him like this, as his ally, as his queen. "We can't have you making yourself ill! We're having the push soon and—"

"_I know we're having the push soon!_" Arthur stormed, finally whirling on him. "It's my bloody push! I've been working this for... for _months_ and I _certainly_ don't need you—_you_ to... to..." He sucked in an angry breath. "Christ, I _knew_ you would do this! Do you think I'm incapable of running my own army?"

Alfred blinked at him, taken aback.

"Arthur," he said uneasily, "I... jeez, all I said was—"

"Well, don't _just say_ anything!" Arthur tossed the tiny flags down on the desk. "How _dare_ you think you can just... just show up and tell me how to fight this war! Who the hell do you think you are?"

"I think," Alfred replied quietly, calmly, "that I'm the King of Spades – and that you're my queen, Arthur Kirkland; and that we took vows not even two weeks ago that we would honour one another as allies, that we would help one another and—"

"Because they were in _your_ interest!" Arthur looked absolutely furious. "Because the Queen of Hearts attacked you! I've been fighting out here for two years and where were you _then_, Your Majesty?"

"Arthur, you know that's—"

"You have no idea about this war, Alfred, so don't think you can appear and take over operations just because of your title. You might be the King of Spades and I only your queen but I absolutely _assure_ you that I won't be rolling over in obedience at any point in the near future. You command nothing from me whatsoever."

With that, Arthur stormed out of the tent. Alfred exhaled deeply, running his fingertips over his glass ring. God, Arthur was a piece of work these days. He was probably in such a foul mood because he was hungry, too; and with dusk fast closing in and the snow beginning to fall again, the night was set to grow very cold and Arthur had gone stalking out in just his uniform, which wasn't going to make him any happier. Alfred saw the fur-lined cloak of blue velvet thrown over the back of the chair and snatched it up, making sure to zip his own bomber jacket all the way up to the collar before heading out into the elements himself.

Arthur hadn't gone very far, seeming more like he was pacing than anything; he caught Alfred's eye as he ventured out of the tent after him and stubbornly turned away, folding his arms. Alfred stepped behind him, their bootprints merging, and slipped his cloak on over his shoulders.

"Fine, starve yourself to death if you want," Alfred said in a low voice, "but at least wrap up warm. You'll end up with frostbite or something and I'll have to take care of you."

Arthur hunched his shoulders defensively under Alfred's touch; but at length relaxed, as though wilting under the weight of his cloak. He reached up to pull it closer around himself, his blue wedding ring gleaming on his finger.

"This... this is exactly what I didn't want," he said after a while, his voice very soft. He started to walk, his cloak trailing in the snow after him.

"What is?" Alfred asked, keeping time beside him; he gave a sharp exhale. "Look, I know you don't want me here but—"

"You're right," Arthur interrupted serenely. "I _don't_ want you here, Alfred. I wanted you to stay out of this. I wanted you to be safe."

"W-well—"

"But it's not just that. It's this, too. _This_ is what I didn't want." Arthur rubbed at his glass band. "Us marrying... out of sheer convenience. I could have done it, Alfred. It's not as though I didn't think of it – but the idea of it made me so sad. I wanted you to marry for... for love."

Alfred was surprised – not least because Arthur had basically been screaming at him to mind his own business barely a minute before.

"Arthur—"

"Because what I feel isn't enough," Arthur went on. "It isn't enough to make us happy once the convenience of our marriage has run its course." He sighed. "We shouldn't have consummated it – at least then we could have had it annulled..."

"Wait." Alfred stepped in front of Arthur, making him halt and look up at him in surprise. "Arthur, you think I didn't _want_ to marry you?" He gave an incredulous laugh. "Gee, and here I thought that it was _you_ who didn't want to marry _me_! I mean, I know you agreed to it and everything but you just... I don't know, didn't seem all that into it, so I guess I figured you didn't really want to."

"I didn't. Not for the reason we _did_ wed, anyway."

"Aww, you think that matters to me?" Alfred put his hands on Arthur's shoulders, sinking his fingers into the thick fur of his cloak. "Look, I'll agree that the thing was rushed and the reason it happened wasn't... well, wasn't all that pleasant, but you're totally wrong if you think I'm just gonna chuck you the moment we win this war. I meant those vows, Arthur, and despite the crappy circumstances that led to us getting hitched, I'm... I'm not sorry we did. I've wanted to help you and protect you since the war broke out, you know that, and I haven't been able to – but now I'm your king and it's my duty to and that's just fine with me."

"I don't _need_ to be protected," Arthur said waspishly. "I might be your queen but that doesn't make me a damsel in distress."

Alfred grinned.

"Well, maybe not," he said, "but I want to protect you all the same. You were my shield when you were the King of Spades and now I want to be yours. What's so wrong with that?"

"Nothing, I suppose," Arthur sighed. He looked away. "But... all the same, I do wish you wouldn't be such a know-it-all. I know what I'm doing out here, after all, and I'm afraid that I can't help but resent you sticking your nose in even though you mean well."

"I know. I'm sorry, I just... I don't know. I'm so used to worrying about you, I guess." Alfred grinned sheepishly. "You push yourself really hard. It's okay to take a break now and then, you know. I mean... today is Christmas Day and you haven't even stopped to _eat_, never mind wish anyone a Merry Christmas."

"There's still a war on," Arthur said stiffly. "There's no time for merriment _or_ laziness."

"Got time for a little walk with your king?" Alfred asked, holding out his hand.

"W-well, I—"

"Arthur, I know we've only been married for thirteen days but this is the first time we've been alone together since our wedding night. That's... that's pretty bad."

Arthur gave an exaggerated sigh.

"I suppose it is," he grumbled, putting his hand into Alfred's. "Alright, alright. Let's go for a sodding walk."

They started through the snow together, drifting away from the camp and the sound of the soldiers singing; the snow spiralled down to earth, giving them both silver crowns upon golden hair, and the night fell in like a deep bruise along the crisp horizon. Alfred glanced at Arthur out of the corner of his eye and saw the fingers of his ring hand touching gently at the Mark of Spades above his Adam's apple – a symbol, surely, of how much he had wanted him that night. He tightened his grip on his hand and Arthur looked at him, meeting his gaze.

"Arthur, I'm new at all this," Alfred said, smiling. "I'm pretty new at this King of Spades gig, I'm new to this war and I'm sure as hell brand new at having a queen – but I promise I'll learn to look after you. Just give me some time."

He held both of Arthur's hands and leaned into kiss him. Arthur didn't turn away this time and smiled crookedly, shyly, when they parted.

"Fate brought you back to me as my queen," Alfred promised, "and I'll never let go of you again."

* * *

Ah, Spadey-Spades, you're so pretty. My friend actually bought me _Arte Stella_ for my birthday and the whole thing is just jaw-droppingly gorgeous. I love how beautifully Himaruya _can_ draw when he feels like it – you know, instead of scribbling on a napkin. XD

...I feel like I had more to say but _Family Guy_ is on and now I'm really distracted~ Soooooo... yeah, hope you enjoyed it! Uh, once again, do come back tomorrow for the second place winner! XD


	3. This Is The Army, Mr Jones

_This_... is the second place winner. I literally got it finished about fifteen minutes ago. At over 5000 words, I really should have had better control over this fucker but admittedly this was my favourite out of all of the prompts and I was thrilled when it made it into the Top 5 after spending the first two weeks of the poll somewhere near the bottom. Yay! :3

Nonetheless, I am actually surprised that this one got in at all, to be honest, and here's why: This prompt was the UKUS Navy!AU in which 19-year-old new blood Alfred gets preyed upon by significantly-older!Arthur (and what's more, Alfred isn't the first stupid newbie sugar-daddy!Arthur has ever ensnared – contrarily, he has a bit of a reputation for it). However, **54** of you voted for it – so here it is!

Thanks to: **bleach-otaku, splitDEVOTION, LovelyToMeetYou, Pandora of Ithilien, Halloween Pumpkin, nadrixam, Lamashtar Two** and **This Could Theoretically Be Sparta**!

_This Is The Army, Mr Jones_: A bit of a skewed title for this fic as it has a Navy setting but it's too perfect to pass up nonetheless, don't you think? The song was written by Irving Berlin to feature in the show/film T_his Is The Army_, which starred Ronald Reagan in one of the lead roles. I can't believe that guy used to be an actor since I'm so used to the president!version being idolised by _American Dad_'s Stan Smith, haha.

This Is The Army, Mr Jones

"Did I ever tell you about Arthur Kirkland?"

It's Christmas Eve and Matthew looks up at his twin, who is drunk and more than a little bitter; they aren't young men anymore, not really, almost hitting forty as the first year of the new decade, the 1960s, draws to a glossy close. Alfred always grows sour around this time of year – but he has never spoken of why, never once, and Matthew regards him with wary interest now.

He has never heard him mention an Arthur Kirkland, after all.

"No," he says, his voice low in the gap between their bar stools. "Who's he?"

"Who _was_ he, you mean." Alfred gives a snort. "I figure he'd probably be dead these days anyway if he wasn't... you know, already dead."

"I _don't_ know, though," Matthew prompts. "Tell me, Al. Was he a friend of yours?"

Alfred swills his beer around the bottom of his glass, appearing to give the question some thought.

"He was the worst excuse for a human being I've ever come across," he says finally. "He was selfish, cruel, manipulative. He was an alcoholic and he used to insult me all the time and he was possessive, too, and acted like he owned me. He was stubborn as hell, also, and I don't think he ever took a blind bit of notice of anything I said, not once."

Matthew scrunches his nose.

"He sounds awful," he says flatly. "Where did you know him from?"

"The Navy." Alfred sighs. "Back then, you know. I met him in 1942."

Matthew gives a wry smile; he'd had a brute of a commanding officer when he'd been in the army back in the war, too.

"Did you hate him?" he asks.

But, to his surprise, Alfred shakes his head.

"Not one bit," he says in a low voice; and then he suddenly smiles, the quirk of his mouth sad and secret. "I was absolutely in love with him."

* * *

_Alfred F. Jones first locked gazes with Commodore 1__st__ Class Arthur Kirkland of the Royal Navy in the spring of 1942; he, a rookie who had joined the US Navy after the attack on Pearl Harbor, was part of a bunch of teenagers just like himself under the command of French naval officer Francis Bonnefoy, who was in charge of their day-to-day routine. He and the other boys were young and boisterous and squealed like piglets as they threw things as makeshift balls back and forth and wrestled with one another for Batman comics and baseball cards. Commodore Kirkland had come to observe them at their play in what Alfred had assumed to be idle interest, standing at the door with Bonnefoy in his splendid white uniform. Bonnefoy had seemed irritated by his presence but had eventually flapped his hand towards the new recruits in what appeared to be surrender; Kirkland had watched them all a while longer before muttering something and Alfred was sharply called over by the Frenchman. _

_He was told, in quite as many words by a disgruntled Bonnefoy, that Commodore Kirkland had settled upon him as a personal aide; he would now have additional duties, almost secretarial work, but he would automatically be put up by two ranks to take on the responsibility. Alfred had agreed, of course, and sealed his fate in shaking hands with Kirkland, whose startlingly-green eyes roved over him unabashed – and at the time Alfred did not think it terribly strange that this prestigious man had seen him throwing an empty can around the barracks and decided he wanted him to do paperwork for him. Of course it didn't add up but Alfred was thrilled to be singled out, to be bumped up two ranks without even trying, and trotted gleefully off with Kirkland to his private quarters to be debriefed on his new duties._

_Arthur didn't do anything to him that day or that night – it took him weeks to ease into it, in fact, breaking Alfred in gently, training him to accept it – but just before Alfred left, his head swimming with all of the new information, what these codes meant, where to put certain files, Arthur took him firmly by the chin and held his gaze very fiercely._

"_There is one more thing you might care to remember," he said frostily. "You're mine now, Mr Jones."_

* * *

Arthur had a horrible habit of really wrenching at Alfred's hair when Alfred was blowing him. He barely made a sound, hardly even moved at all, but his fist tightened and tightened until _Alfred_ was the one squirming between his legs, trying to loosen his fingers. It was almost as though Arthur didn't want him to get any enjoyment at all out of it, dragging at poor Alfred's scalp deliberately to hurt him as much as he could.

Arthur's fingers loosened and fluttered as he came, though, and Alfred rested his hands on Arthur's knees as he swallowed and pulled back, breathless. His skull still stung from the ordeal and he rubbed at it, daring to shoot Arthur a reproachful look.

"Hmmph." Arthur barely glanced at him, standing. "Man up." He stepped over Alfred where he was still kneeling on the floor, zipping himself back up as he crossing to the desk. "Christ, you can be such a baby sometimes."

His smile grew ironic at that and he casually tossed it over his shoulder as Alfred wiped his mouth on his sleeve.

Alfred looked pointedly away; it was almost Christmas, a good eight months since he had first met Arthur, and he had only recently discovered that the renowned commodore was actually thirty-two years his elder – more than old enough to be his father. He had been _stunned_ by the discovery (poisonously let slip by Francis) that Arthur was fifty-one. He looked old, sure, but not _that_ old; Alfred had clocked him for perhaps his early forties at the very latest, for his face had few lines and his hair was still very blonde, silvering only at the temples. He was in excellent shape for someone over half a century old, even though he did drink and smoke a lot more than Alfred thought was healthy for _anyone_.

After it was out of the bag, however, Arthur stopped simply tossing Alfred into bed and began to seduce him with stories of his heroics in the trenches during the Great War – which Alfred drank up whole-heartedly, knowing that Arthur (who had been born in 1891, if his maths was correct) had been twenty-three at the time of the conflict's outbreak and most likely _had_ been called up for active duty. Arthur was a fantastic storyteller, weaving his words so skilfully that Alfred was mesmerised by him, almost as though he was breathing Arthur's exciting life through his tales, and he honestly didn't even care if half of it was made up. Arthur was nicest to him then, reeling him in, admiring his youth and praising his looks, and even if he was only using him for his body, his compliments were so very flattering that Alfred glowed beneath him; but by day he was absolutely vile to him, speaking to him sharply and insulting him when he made a mistake (in a bid to keep their liaison secret, Alfred supposed, though it still wasn't very pleasant to be on the receiving end of).

Overall, Alfred had quickly discovered that Arthur Kirkland wasn't a very nice person, cynical and embittered by age and warfare; but he did find him fascinating all the same and couldn't help but to admire him, to envy his life and his experiences.

They were a terrible, terrible match and it shouldn't ever have worked but somehow it did and Alfred was absolutely smitten.

—

"What the hell _is_ that?" Arthur stormed at him, cutting himself off mid-tirade (he was drunk on watered-down rum and furious that Alfred had made a small copying mistake on a duplicate document); he pointed angrily at the small glint of metal clutched in Alfred's white hands. "I always see you with that bloody thing in your pocket! What is it, a fucking _bullet_?"

"No!" Alfred cried defensively, clutching it tighter. "It's... it's just this stupid little... _thing_ I carry for luck—"

"Hand it over!" Arthur demanded, holding out his palm; and he slammed his tumbler down on the desk when Alfred made no move to give it to him. "Hand it over this _instant_, you insolent little fucker!"

Alfred hunched defensively, near tears – because Arthur frightened him like this, not because Alfred was scared of being shouted at but because it was so painfully obvious just how ill Arthur was with alcoholism – before holding out his hand and dropping his lucky charm into Arthur's shaking palm.

Arthur blinked at it, apparently derailed.

"What the fuck is this supposed to be?" he snapped, holding the tiny metal ship up to the light. "Is this your idea of a joke?"

"N-no, it's..." Alfred swallowed and looked away. "It's one of the models from our game of _Battleship_ back home. I... brought it with me for good luck when I left home to join up."

"Unbelievable." Arthur clenched the little toy in his fist. "Do you think this war is a _game_?"

"I-I..." Alfred blinked. "No, of course not—"

"My god, but you are pathetic," Arthur hissed at him; he stood, swaying a little bit, and tossed the ship into a corner of the room. "Coming here, all of you, treating this as though it's some grand... grand _adventure_ in one of those printed rags you read!" He leaned forward, almost staggering against Alfred – who backed up, his fists clenching. "Or are you _scared_? Does that silly little bit of scrap metal make you feel that you won't be killed?"

Alfred stared at him in appalled silence, tears welling in the corners of his eyes. He couldn't speak.

"What?" Arthur spat at him. "Was that over the line? Do you think I've forgotten that you're not much more than a school boy, that you have a mother and father waiting at home for your safe return? I assure you that that makes no difference to the Germans! I've seen boys younger than you shot to pieces by machine gun fire. It's not pleasant to hear but it's the truth, Alfred, so don't give me that doe-eyed look!" He snatched up the flawed document and threw it at Alfred's chest. "Now take that and get out of my fucking sight."

Alfred didn't move. Something in Arthur's white face positively _twisted_.

"What are you waiting for?" he breathed. "An apology?" There was another long pause between them. "Get _out_! _Get out right now_!"

Alfred fled, snatching up his battleship on the way out; the door banged shut behind him as he scrambled out, clutching his charm in a burning fist, his chest heaving as he tried not to sob. He leaned back against the metal wall, the ship swaying beneath him, and pressed his palm to his forehead as he felt the tears spill over despite his efforts.

"Well," said a familiar, richly-accented voice to his right, "this is a first, I will admit."

Alfred started, wiping fiercely at his face as he whirled towards Francis Bonnefoy – who was leaning against the wall on the other side of the door to Arthur's quarters.

"A... a first what?" he asked, his voice cracking. His heart began to pound in terror.

"You are the first one he has made cry," Francis said blandly; he unfolded his arms as he looked Alfred up and down. "I think you should go back to your barracks and tidy yourself up, Mr Jones; your presentation is not up to par today. Besides, the boys have been asking for you. It would be good to spend some time with your comrades rather than living in Commodore Kirkland's pocket, non?"

"I... I can't." Alfred held up the papers. "I have to redo this copying and Ar—I-I mean, Commodore Kirkland already told me off for—"

"With all due respect," Francis drawled boredly, "we both know that that is not why you are in tears."

Alfred stepped back nervously; Francis' clear blue eyes did not leave him.

"Alfred, I will be frank with you," he said in a low voice. "You are simply the latest in a long line of stupid rookies Commodore Kirkland has chosen to be his dogsbody. I am sure you are not completely oblivious to the fact that he "hand-picked" you because of your looks, not because of your abilities." He pointed at the sheets clenched in Alfred's shaking fist. "I think you have proven that you are somewhat inept at your official duties."

"I—" Alfred began, his voice trembling.

"So," Francis interrupted quietly, "I will only warn you that you should not upset yourself over him. He will eventually tire of you and cast you aside. As for your current... predicament, I am afraid that there is not much I can do for you since you agreed to be his aide and he went over both my head and the heads of your US Navy commanding officers to secure you a jump of two rank positions." Francis cleared his throat. "I suppose what I am saying is that you are playing a very dangerous game, one which you signed up for without realising, and I would urge you to simply keep your head down and try to get out of it unscathed. He will think nothing of destroying your career if you cross him and I assure you that he has the power to do it. Distancing yourself from him as much as you can is the only way to survive. Feelings have no place in this situation – you must remember why you are even here, after all."

A little shaken, Alfred drew himself up nonetheless.

"I'm not sure I know what you're talking about," he said coolly, slipping his battleship back into his pocket.

"Good." Francis gave a wry smile. "Then try to keep it that way."

—

"Does that thing really bring you luck?" Arthur pried Alfred's fist open, the little metal toy glinting within his sweaty palm.

"I guess so," Alfred replied in a low voice. "I'm still alive."

"Hmm." Arthur trailed his fingertips over Alfred's wrist, all the way down to the crook of his elbow. "Should I perhaps be disconcerted that I always see you clutching it when I shag you?"

Alfred closed his hand again and sighed, turning onto his side underneath Arthur.

"I was scared the first time we did it," he admitted. "So I guess it's just... become a habit."

"Ah, yes, I was your first." Arthur kissed Alfred's bare shoulder. "That's often the case. You all come to the army and navy so goddamn young that it's no wonder. That's the tragedy of this war – and the Great War, too. At least I was twenty-three when they took me; young enough, I assure you, but I saw boys as young as fourteen lie to get in."

"Did you sleep with them, too?" Alfred asked, tucking his arm under his head; he glanced at Arthur, who arched his thick eyebrows in amusement.

"I hardly think that's any of your business," he said lightly; and then he smirked. "Or is it?"

Alfred stiffened, looking up at him guardedly.

"Francis never _has_ been able to keep his gob shut," Arthur went on. "Not even when he's running me down right outside my door."

Alfred exhaled, looking away again.

"You heard," he said weakly.

"I did hear." Arthur stroked Alfred's hair. "And I think you should know that he wasn't lying."

Alfred didn't answer, squeezing his fist around his tiny ship. Arthur abruptly let go of his hair and got off him, leaving the bed and going to one of his cupboards. He took out one of his precious bottles, clear gin sloshing back and forth as he set it down and began to hunt for a glass. Alfred watched him, not daring to say anything.

"Do you want a drink?" Arthur asked absently.

"No thanks." Alfred finally sat up, beginning to reach for his clothes. "I should get back."

Arthur glanced at him.

"I do hope you're not giving me the cold shoulder, my lad," he said dangerously. "I let you off with an awful lot, you know. I shouldn't even be offering you a drink – you're underage, to begin with." He caught himself. "Not that that matters to me, of course."

"I know." Alfred pulled his uniform back on. "From what I've heard, we all have that in common. I guess we're easy prey, huh?"

"Hmm?" Arthur turned to him, sipping at his gin. He looked at Alfred very intently. "I suppose you are. You ought to know, though, that you're the youngest that I've ever settled for – the _very_ easiest prey I've ever had."

"I see." Alfred rubbed at his arm. "W-well, then—"

"Come here." Arthur's tone changed completely, sharpening. Alfred hesitated – then went to him when he saw Arthur's eyes flash impatiently. "Good boy."

Arthur took another mouthful of his gin before setting it down on the desk; he grabbed Alfred by the front of his uniform and kissed him open-mouthed, the gin igniting it so that Alfred's senses sparked and reeled. He swallowed some of it and almost choked, coughing after Arthur let him go, his eyes watering.

"Hmm." Arthur gave a little laugh, taking Alfred by the chin. "My, you do amuse me so." He felt Alfred pull and let him go again. "Well, alright then. Push off."

Alfred backed away, rubbing at his wet eyes. Arthur laughed at him again.

"What are you crying over?" he asked, reaching for his glass once more. "Do you miss mummy and daddy? Do you wish they were here to stop me bullying you? Whatever would they say, I wonder, if they saw you dropping to your knees whenever I command you to? Well, maybe you can tell them all about it when you go home for Christmas next week—oh, no, wait. My mistake." Arthur's smile twisted. "You won't be going anywhere, will you? Nobody gets to go home for Christmas. No more singing around the fire or opening expensive presents, little Alfred. You'll be rotting here on this ship on Christmas Day, waiting to die."

He drank again, long and deep as though it was water. Alfred simply gazed at him for a long moment, a lump welling against his will in his throat, before turning his face away.

"I know," he said, so quietly it was barely audible. "I know I'll probably never see my family again – or my friends or my hometown or even my damn country. I-I'm glad... it makes you feel better to say so, Arthur."

"It doesn't," Arthur said archly, swilling his gin around his tumbler. He watched Alfred for a moment, almost impatiently; and then, unexpectedly, his expression softened. "It doesn't, you know," he said again – and he sighed. "Look, you... you shouldn't take much notice of me. I'm a bitter old bastard with nothing else to do but pickle my guts and behave horribly, when it comes right down to it. I say things just to upset you, things that I don't really mean. You're the easiest prey I've ever had in _that_ regard, too. You oughtn't give me the satisfaction of seeing you upset."

"You m-might not... not mean them," Alfred stammered, starting to cry nonetheless, "b-but they're true, the things you say... I pr-probably _will_ die out here and never... never..."

Arthur put down his glass again and held out his arms. His expression was serious and very difficult to read.

"Come here," he commanded again; but his voice was gentler than before, than Alfred had ever heard it.

Perhaps stupidly, Alfred was very easily reeled in by him once more, clutching at Arthur when he felt him put his arms around him protectively and actually hug him.

"I know you're scared," he said quietly, rubbing at Alfred's hair. "You have every reason to be."

"_I just want to go home_," Alfred sobbed into Arthur's shoulder.

"I know," Arthur hummed. "1914. I was older than you are now and I'd wanted so much to join the army and go to war – and I got what I wanted and sat there in the trenches freezing in the days running up to that first Christmas and I cried my heart out because all I wanted to do was go home."

* * *

Alfred paused outside the door to Arthur's quarters, clutching the bottle of bourbon he'd had his parents send to him. It was only a very small bottle and even then Alfred knew he probably shouldn't give it to Arthur, the man was so clearly an alcoholic that he wasn't doing him any favours by encouraging him, but it was the only think he could think of that he might possibly like and he wanted to give him something – had wanted to even months before Arthur had started to be extremely nice to him since that night last week when _something_ had changed between them.

But he paused now, his heart in his mouth, because he could hear Francis in there with Arthur and he could hear, moreover, exactly what they were saying:

"Well, it _is_ nice to see that you have finally exhumed your smothered conscience, mon ami. This will be the first one whose career you haven't completely ruined in one way or another. Remember that Australian boy a few years ago? He'll be lucky to find work _anywhere_ after the damage you did."

"That little fucker deserved it – trying to blackmail me for a promotion. The very _idea_ of still makes me angry."

"Oui – as we all know blackmail would have no effect on you whatsoever. You are so powerful and well-connected that you simply do what you like and get away with it." Francis gave a sour laugh. "To think that he had not realised that. You are not exactly secretive about your little pets."

"Well, I'm letting Alfred go before I ruin anything for him. He's... _different_ to the others. He isn't poisonous, I know he'll never try to get what he wants out of me—for god's sake, I think he's in love with me, to be honest."

"It would seem to me that it may be mutual. I have never seen you do this before, Arthur."

"Do what?"

"_Care_ about one of them. Your past policy has always been to use them for paperwork and sex and then throw them aside when they start getting too confident."

"Alfred is different, as I said," Arthur insisted flatly. "And that's the end of the matter. I know you're moving his lot on the day after Christmas – I had planned to keep him with me but I've decided that it would be better for him to go, too. I think he's done enough paperwork for me."

"And it would have nothing to do with the fact that these waters are significantly more dangerous than the ones he would be moving to?"

"I do not care to discuss it. He is all yours again – be sure to tell him that I shan't be requiring his services anymore."

"None of them?"

"Not a single one." Arthur cleared his throat. "Now kindly bugger off, frog. It's Christmas and I don't want to look at you for any longer than I must."

"Of course, mon ami. Au revoir." The door opened and Francis came sauntering out; he blinked on seeing Alfred, then smiled sharply. "Well, it looks as though I will not have to relay anything," he said pleasantly; he reached out and took the bottle of bourbon from Alfred's slack hand. "I will take this back to your bunk, Mr Jones. If you feel anything at all for Commodore Kirkland, you will not help him to kill himself."

He swanned off just as Arthur came to the door in morbid curiosity; he frowned when he saw Alfred.

"What are you doing lurking out here, boy?" he asked coolly. He stepped aside. "I think you had better come in."

"Arthur," Alfred burst out the moment he was in the room, "I don't want to go with my troop! I want to stay here with you!"

"Alfred," Arthur said impatiently, "this is a war. You are a soldier. You are here to fight – and, moreover, you are here to do as you are told."

"But—"

"I am not arguing with you. You are leaving tomorrow with your troop and that's the end of it – and it's the end of _this_, too. This stops right now, do you understand?"

"No!" Alfred cried. "That isn't fair! It's... Everything is always what _you_ want—"

"Ah, but that's the thing. I'm trying to change that, Alfred. It _has_ always been what I want – and I've destroyed the reputations of a lot of good soldiers and sailors by doing whatever I want. I won't do it to you, too. This is for the best."

"But... but I—"

"I know." Arthur touched Alfred's mouth, stopping him. "You're... about the only person who ever has but I think it's better left unsaid all the same. You're a good lad, Alfred – and you've made _me_ want to be a little bit less of a bastard. That's an achievement, I assure you." He frowned when he saw Alfred pull his head away again. "Look, I'm trying to do a good thing – the first good thing I've done for a long time. You haven't ever fought me before so please don't start now."

Alfred simply gave a defeated shrug, still not looking at him.

"I suppose this is your idea of a Christmas present," he said in a low, sulky voice. "Deciding to stop illegally screwing a nineteen year old boy."

"It's the best present I've given in a good while," Arthur agreed nonchalantly, "believe it or not."

Alfred sighed, trying his best to smile.

"I guess your reasoning is honourable, at least," he groused. "I... had a present for you too but... Francis took it off me. Said I shouldn't... help you kill yourself."

"Ha, I'm sure the Krauts will get me before the devil drink does." Arthur shook his head. "It's alright, though. If it was American, I'm sure it would have tasted like cat's piss anyway."

Alfred smirked.

"I guess." He put his hand in his pocket and pulled out his battleship, holding it out shyly. "But since... since I'm leaving, I want you to have this." He went a bit red. "I-I know you think it's stupid and that it's a joke but—"

"Alfred, I told you." Arthur took the little battleship. "I say things that I don't mean just to be a prick." He looked at the little toy, turning it this way and that. "Truth be told, I've always been rather jealous of this. I wish I'd had something like this when I went off in 1914." He shrugged. "Still, perhaps I didn't need it. I'm fifty-one and still alive. More or less."

And then he smiled properly – the first real smile Alfred had ever seen from him – and suddenly he looked his age; half a century and exhausted.

"Thank you, Alfred," he said. "I'll keep it with me always."

Alfred tilted his head, grinning.

"You're welcome," he replied. "...You know, this is kinda like _A Christmas Carol_. You were such a dick and now check out how nice you're being. I just hope I'm not the only one who benefits from not being told by you to go fuck themselves. Are you a changed man, Mr Scrooge?"

Arthur gave an amused snort.

"Hardly," he said drolly. "I know it's Christmas but don't go expecting bloody miracles."

* * *

"So what happened to him?" Matthew asks, frowning; he is uncomfortable with Alfred's drunken outpouring, almost twenty years of bottled feelings, and sips distractedly at his drink. "Did he drink himself to death or what?"

"No." Alfred sighs. "He probably woulda done but the Germans got him first. That ship got torpedoed in March 1943. Every single person on there was killed, including Arthur. I'd have been on there, too, if Arthur hadn't made me go with my troop."

Matthew shoots him a guarded look.

"I take it you were upset?"

"Devastated," Alfred says conversationally. "You have no idea."

Matthew shrugs.

"Well, I guess I just don't understand it," he says. "He sounds like he was a horrible person who took advantage of you because you were stupid enough to let him."

"He was," Alfred agrees, "and I was." He shrugs helplessly. "But I loved him. Don't ask me why. I'm sure I'm the only person who ever did – and he was sure, too. I mean, it's no wonder, really, with the way he got on, but... I feel that there was a lot more to him underneath it all, something I managed to scratch the surface of. I just wish I had gotten to see more of it before he died. I... I never saw him again, not after that Christmas Day. We left really early on the twenty-sixth. I didn't think much of it at the time, figured I'd run into him again at some point, but he was killed." He gives a little laugh. "Funny, isn't it? He survived all that time and then... _bam_. Dead. Just like that. Guess my little battleship didn't bring him much luck after all."

"I think he was _very_ lucky, Alfred," Matthew replies.

He looks at his twin, his brother who has carried that secret for all these years; sweet, cheerful, kind Alfred, always the one who shone the brightest out of them both, who gave his heart to someone that didn't deserve it. It's ironic that Alfred didn't end up married to the prettiest girl in town and instead still longs for a monster who almost destroyed him (before realising, it seems, at the last moment that he couldn't do it – even Arthur Kirkland couldn't crush something so lovely and so pure).

"He was lucky to have been loved by you."

* * *

...So, uh, we're officially on thin ice from here on, lads and luvvies. We have three days left. I have three prompts to write and I haven't started any of them. I am also in work for the next three days.

I WILL TRY. O HOW I WILL TRY.

But I might fail. So. Um. Please forgive me if I do. The fact is that I got the idea to do this vote-for-five-prompts-and-I'll-write-the-winners-yay before I got the job in John Lewis. If it was a different sort of job I'm sure it wouldn't be so bad but because it's a department store, the Christmas hours are insane. I actually underestimated quite how bad they would be, which is why I went ahead with this project. It was a miscalculation on my part, frankly, but nonetheless I'm not going to give up just yet! Whoo!

Hopefully catch you all tomorrow with the fourth place winner! C=

xXx


	4. Comin' In On A Wing And A Prayer

It's Day Four and though I really had to scramble to get this one done – as in, I came home from work and wrote it all in one sitting, aaaaaarghhhhh – I _did_ manage to finish it, so here we are! We're still on schedule! :)

Thank you for an overwhelming response in favour of yesterday's prompt! As I said, it was my favourite and I'm so happy that I got to include it here and that people liked it! :3 With thanks to: **callinthetides, Pandora of Ithilien, splitDEVOTION, sabacat, TheWonderBunny, Em, ElricLawliet, Starfire, bleach-otaku, Renuki, nadrixam, IrisWill, Hada-Fiction, This Could Theoretically Be Sparta, HalloweenPumpkin, Lamashtar Two **and** CrashTheMIGHTY **(and** Hakuku **for your sweet FB message)!

Today's prompt, which clocked in at fourth place with **50 **votes, was the air force pilots with major UST having to spend Christmas Day together in the same POW camp. Summed up: RAF/USAF USUK UST XMAS POW~

_Comin' In On A Wing And A Prayer_: Written in 1943 by Jimmie McHugh and Harold Adamson, this patriotic song was a huge hit, tapping into the public's admiration for the US Air Force. It was covered by lots of different artists during the war and a film released in 1944, _Wing and a Prayer_, even borrowed the song's title for its own.

Comin' In On A Wing And A Prayer

"No fucking _way_."

Alfred F. Jones stopped dead in the doorway to the wooden hut he would be sharing with – according to his captor – one other captured pilot, a Royal Air Force bomber who had been shot down five months before.

"Seriously?" Alfred turned to the stern-looking German officer escorting him, unable to suppress a grin despite his predicament. "I'm sharing with _this guy_?"

The German blinked at him, his blue eyes widening somewhat.

"Yes," he said, seeming unsettled by the question. "I do not see why it should be a problem. You are both Allied pilots. I am sure that you will have... ah, some things in common."

Alfred laughed, wheeling towards his room-mate once more.

"Sure thing," he said, waving his hand. "Well, don't let me keep you. I'm sure I can figure out how things work around here."

The German looked rather bemused; but eventually he gave a silent, confused nod and left the hut, locking it firmly behind him.

"So." Alfred folded his arms, leaning against the doorframe. "Long time no see, Wing Commander Kirkland."

"So it has been, Lieutenant Colonel Jones." Arthur finally looked up from his ratty book, scowling. "There goes my peace and quiet. It was too much to hope you'd leave me alone even after I got captured."

Alfred snorted.

"This is pretty pathetic," he said, looking around. "Five months you've been here. You mighta been the toast of the RAF back in England but you couldn't even be bothered to escape from here."

"It would be pointless," Arthur sighed, going back to his book. "I have considered escape from every conceivable angle but the fact is that I speak no German, have no papers and am wearing an RAF uniform. Even if I _were_ to somehow get out of this camp, I would be lucky to get half a mile before being soundly escorted back here."

"Tch, what a lame excuse." Alfred smirked, pushing off the doorframe and coming to the table in the middle of the small cabin. "I see how it is. Our rivalry was getting too much for you, wasn't it? You know I'm better than you so you thought it would be better to just lie low here instead, rather than show your face back at base."

Arthur simply gave a deep sigh, turning his page.

"This again already?" he asked blandly. "You know I haven't much patience for your impudence, Jones. When you've graduated from Royal Air Force College Cranwell with a First – and _only_ then – you can discuss with me which of us is the better pilot."

"Oh, blah blah blah again about your fancy-pants flying school," Alfred scoffed; he put his feet up on the table, smirking at Arthur past the chunky soles of his fur-lined boots. "Being Top Boy—"

"_Head_ Boy."

"Sorry, _Head_ Boy didn't stop you from getting captured a whole five months before me – so haha, I win."

"Well," Arthur said coolly, scrunching his nose in delicate disgust at Alfred putting his boots up on the table, "now we're even – so shut your gob before I shut it for you. And," he added acidly, "if you can't do that, then at least _try_ to be civil."

Alfred laughed uproariously, genuinely amused.

"I'm not doing either of those things," he replied loudly, tipping his chair back on two legs and rocking back and forth. "You should know perfectly well that I'm going to go right back to making your life miserable."

"Very well, then." Arthur met his gaze briefly over his book. "I can rise to that challenge. _Again_."

—

Having expected a miserable life consisting of a damp cell, nothing but bread and water for sustenance and cold showers every morning, Alfred was grudgingly surprised by the comfort he found himself in. Sure, it wasn't exactly The Ritz but it wasn't bad considering it was a POW camp in the middle of Germany. The cabin he shared with only Arthur could hold six men and was tolerably warm; there were plenty of blankets to spare and the place was furnished rather well with chairs, a dining table, two desks and a tattered rug. There was also a radio, although the signal wasn't very good, and they were free to come and go as they pleased between the cabin and the fenced-in enclosure beyond, not that there was much to do there but smoke and kick rocks.

Arthur had been shrewd in stockpiling many of the supplies he had been sent in Red Cross POW packages – and he grew very angry when Alfred, mostly out of boredom, raided his hoard and occasionally made off with chocolate or a tin of spam or a candle to whittle into something more interesting (or ruder, depending on his mood). The very fact that there _were_ luxuries to steal – books and ration sweets and cigarettes – made Alfred feel that this was all a bit of an adventure and he grew relaxed about his predicament, spending more and more of his time tormenting Arthur than he did coming up with wild escape ideas.

Of course, teasing Arthur was an art unto itself, one that Alfred had long since perfected; not that it was a safe game to play by any means. Arthur had a tongue like a knife and a mean right hook when it suited him. They had come to blows before and sported the black eyes for a week afterwards to prove it. Still, it was fun: Arthur was quite hilarious when he was indignant and Alfred admittedly got some sort of weird thrill out of winding him up. He enjoyed their rivalry and their banter on some level and he was pretty certain that Arthur did, too.

So life went on, downsized and claustrophobic, and Alfred idly watched Arthur painstakingly mark off the days on his Red Cross calendar. It was December and the days fell away, 21, 22, 23 – and on the 24th Alfred sighed and finally came to terms with the fact that he was going to be spending Christmas Day in this cabin with Arthur.

He doubted very much that their guard, Ludwig Beilschmidt, was going to be bringing them turkey and trimmings, though.

—

"This is the worst," Alfred groused, resting his chin in his palms and watching Arthur across the table. The cabin was lit only by candles and Arthur was absorbed in yet another book – a dogeared collection of _Just William_ stories. "It's Christmas and you can't even tell. No presents, no tree, no food—"

"There's spam," Arthur offered blandly.

"—No _good_ food," Alfred corrected with a huff. "Seriously, your guys think that's acceptable food for prisoners? I wouldn't make a _Kraut_ eat that crap." He snorted. "I guess it figures. Sucky welfare packages for a sucky recipient, huh?"

No answer.

"_Arthur_!" Alfred whined. "Don't ignore me!"

"I've found that it's the best way of dealing with you." Though he answered, Arthur did not spare him a glance. "You're such a brat, you know. I don't see why I should give you the time of day."

Alfred sulkily buried his face in his arms, sighing once more.

"You're such a drag," he muttered. "It's Christmas Day and you won't even have a proper conversation with me. Goodwill to all men, Arthur!"

"All you want to do is insult me."

"Well, yeah, because you're _lame_."

"Then why do you want me to have a conversation with you?"

"Because I'm bored! I can't believe I'm spending Christmas doing... well, _nothing_!"

"I hardly think insulting me will alleviate your boredom," Arthur said. "You do that every day – and have done ever since the day we met."

"Hey, I'm not taking the blame for starting this!" Alfred exclaimed, bolting up right again. "I was perfectly willing to be nice to you! You were the one all... all stuck-up and like "Oh, I'm Arthur Kirkland, I went to this super-duper really expensive flying school and got the best grades there in the history of ever! Don't even try to talk to me, silly Yankee, for you are far beneath me!" So... _yeah_! Stick _that_ in your pipe and smoke it!"

Arthur lowered his book at long last.

"I don't recall wording it quite like that," he said icily.

Alfred shrugged.

"Well, that was the message I got," he said. "So I figured I just had to beat you instead."

"I'm afraid to say that you haven't," Arthur said, smirking.

"Have so!" Alfred challenged.

"You have not."

"Have _so_!"

They both stood at the same time, Arthur slamming down his book as they leaned across the tiny table towards one another.

"I'd like to see you prove that," Arthur said dangerously. "Though frankly I don't think you can. Managing to not be captured for a little longer than I is hardly an achievement that I would rank – after all, I've been in this war for two years longer than you."

"That's no reason to act like you're too good for me!" Alfred snapped.

Arthur snorted.

"Your perception of this situation is completely skewed," he replied. "_You're_ the one who came over to England announcing yourself as a hero and that you were going to save the whole of Europe all by yourself." He prodded Alfred in the chest. "Rather big talk from someone sitting here with me in this bloody POW camp, don't you think?"

Alfred pushed him back just that little bit rougher.

"I was the best in _my_ class, too," he said irritably, "so suck on that, Head Boy. Besides, your puny Spitfire is no match for my mighty Mustang."

"Ha! Your Mustang would be nothing if not for our Rolls Royce engine!"

"You wouldn't have any planes _at all_ if we hadn't given you the money for 'em!" Alfred pushed Arthur again.

"You only gave us the money because you wanted _us_ to do all the work so _you_ wouldn't have to get your hands dirty!" Arthur shoved Alfred right back.

"It's not our fault you guys are so piss-poor at fighting the Germans that you always need our help to beat them!"

"It's not _our_ fault that _you_ lot are too lazy to get off your arses and join in when you should!"

"Goddamn Limey!" Alfred burst out in utter frustration, seizing Arthur by the collar.

"Idiot Yankee!" Arthur fired back at him, grabbing Alfred's lapel.

And then, suddenly, they were kissing and there were no more words, untrue or otherwise.

—

"You have no idea how long I've needed to get that outta my system," Alfred groaned, throwing his arm over his eyes.

"Me too," Arthur admitted. "Though don't think that that's been the _only_ reason I argue with you so often. You are actually just a twat at times."

"So are you." Alfred rolled over, slinging his arm over Arthur's waist and nuzzling against the back of his neck. He sighed. "...But I don't feel like wringing your neck anymore."

"Me too, as a matter of fact. That's just the orgasm talking, though." Arthur yawned and patted Alfred's hand. "Or it's the goodwill to all men."

Alfred laughed.

"I'm gonna go with the orgasm," he drawled.

"Oh, well, in that case, I do believe we've found a cure for our homicidal tendencies towards one another. Splendid."

"I know!" Alfred said cheerfully. "And it's great, too, that the solution solves both my want to punch you in the face for being a smart-ass _and_ my want to get into your pants!"

He gave a happy sigh, resting his chin on Arthur's shoulder.

"Ah, Christmas is so magical!"

* * *

...I'm really sorry if this one has a lot of mistakes in it. I literally cranked it out and slapped it up here with a half-arsed read-through. I really need to go to bed. T.T

Catch you all tomorrow~!

xXx


	5. Don't Fence Me In

A rather dark prompt to finish off the Top 5 – this one sees neutral!America keep England as his prisoner in 1940 as a way of keeping him out of harm's way as the war in Europe begins to pick up pace. This was a surprise to me when I counted up the final tally after ending the poll because it was nowhere near the top for most of November. It actually beat the Gakuen AU by only three votes (and that it beat it at all astounds me! O.o), meaning it got in here by the skin of its teeth, haha.

Hope all **48 **of you who voted for it enjoy~!

Thanks to: **Pandora of Ithilien, TheWonderBunny, bleach-otaku, nadrixam, sabacat, **an anonymous reviewer with no name,** andthenshesaid, Renuki, This Could Theoretically Be Sparta, IrisWill, ElricLawliet, LovelyToMeetYou, Blaklite, Halloween Pumpkin, Hada-Fiction, Ellenthefox** and **Fleur de Londres**!

_Don't Fence Me In_: Originally written in 1934, this song was revived eleven years later in 1944 to be sung in the Warner Bros film _Hollywood Canteen_ – a version by Bing Crosby and the Andrews Sisters also topped the chart that year.

Don't Fence Me In

England sat with his forehead pressed against the window, his every sigh steaming on the glass. He had a weak cup of tea that America had made for him clasped between his hands, which he ignored but for its warmth. It was a miserable day – hardly the White Christmas that everyone wished for all year long, instead grey and rainy and bitterly cold.

Of course, he had his back to the festive glow of the living room, preferring to watch the early darkness set in with the Christmas tree and the fire blazing behind him. America had gone to an awful lot of trouble for today, splashing out his (very) recent affluence in order to show off to England. The halls were certainly decked, though with rather more than just boughs of holly; electric lights that flashed all colours of the rainbow, foil decorations which fanned out like fountains, branches of holly and ivy placed on just about every flat surface there was and a splendid fir tree dressed in red and gold. America had lifted England up in order to put the angel on the top (and hadn't let go of him until he'd done it).

America was in the kitchen now, breaking his back over what was apparently going to be "the best Christmas dinner you've ever wished you hadn't eaten quite so much of!". From the supplies in the kitchen and the hours and hours it seemed to be taking America, England thought that it looked set to be some sort of banquet of medieval proportions and hoped that America was inviting an army of knights over to help them eat it.

He wasn't, though. Of course he wasn't. America wasn't going to be inviting any army of any sort anywhere near here. He was a neutral party, albeit one who took sides, and he had no interest in armies – and he didn't want England to be taking any interest in them, either.

No, it was just going to be the two of them. As usual. England hadn't seen another person – nation or human – save America for six months.

He shifted on the sill, closing his eyes, and the bells at his ankle jingled merrily.

—

In the June of 1940, England had been forced to retreat from Dunkirk, firmly pushed out by Germany's army as France fell completely. Battered and bruised in both body and pride, England had been thankful for the invitation from America to come and stay with him for a little while to recuperate. It would be nice, he had thought at the time, to get the hell out of Britain as the war was worsening, just for a week or two to gather his bearings so that he could pull himself together again for the bitter fight inevitably coming his way.

America had made him more than welcome, of course, ensuring that he was thoroughly comfortable and tending to his wounds with pronounced care. He had been happy to see him and England in turn had been grateful for his generous hospitality, enjoying his time with him and trying to forget about the war. Handheld wanders in the park, home-cooked meals instead of the tinned Army fare, snuggling up together on the sofa to listen to _Batman_ serials on the radio – they were all little comforts which helped to rally England once more. Though America remained neutral, he was sweet and supportive of his overseas lover and England was grateful for his badly-made cups of tea, his good morning kisses and his insistence at changing the bandages himself.

After three weeks, however, England felt much better about himself and received correspondence from the War Office that the Luftwaffe had begun aerial attacks on London; the contest for supremacy of the skies had begun and the RAF needed their nation's support.

So England promptly packed his things, thanked America for his kindness and said that he hoped to see him again very soon (perhaps with a hint or two dropped) and left—

Or tried to. It was then that he noticed – and _only_ then – that America had installed new locks on all the windows and reinforced the ones on all the doors.

"You aren't going anywhere, England," America had said softly as England floundered in the hallway with his case, too stunned to speak. "You're going to stay here with me where you're safe."

—

"Take this off," England demanded; he held out his ankle, the metal cuff with its little bells twisting and jingling as he did so. "I'm not a bleeding cat."

"At this time of year, I'd say you're more like one of Santa's elves," America replied cheerfully. "Besides, it's on there so I can hear where you are in the house, so hell no I'm not taking it off. Can't have you picking the locks on the windows and getting out, now can we?"

"America," England sighed frustratedly, "this is ridiculous—"

"Hey, come on now," America interrupted cheerfully, taking England's wrist and hauling him off the sofa; he began to drag him towards the dining room. "Dinner's ready! This is the best part of the whole day!"

"Better than the presents?" England asked acidly.

"Well, yeah, I guess." America grinned at him as he pushed open the dining room door. "Besides, you didn't even _get_ me a present. You're a bad boyfriend, you know."

"How was I supposed to get you a present?" England snapped. "You won't let me leave the house."

"Details, details!" America chirped. He put his hand to the small of England's back and ushered him into the dining room, rather forcefully steering him towards his seat. "There now, you just sit yourself down and I'll get us plated up!"

He pushed England into his chair and pattered away to start bringing the fruits of his labours to the dining table; and having known rationing, perfectly aware that it had kicked in properly back home, England was actually appalled at the feast America had prepared for just the two of them. There was a huge turkey glistening with grease and juices, stuffing and cranberry sauce and gravy, roasted and boiled potatoes and carrots and parsnips and broccoli, yams and sweet potato mash and Brussels sprouts; there were desserts, too, piled on the sideboard, what looked like an apple pie and a pudding covered with a cloth and mince pies dusted with icing sugar. America wasn't a bad cook and it all looked wonderful but England simply sat rigidly his seat, disgusted and angry and desperate, as America piled his plate high with generous helpings of everything.

"There's no way I'll eat all of this," he said icily as America went back to his own seat and began to serve himself. "What you've put on my plate _alone_ could feed a family of four, you gluttonous wanker."

"Yeah, on _rationing_," America replied easily. "Loosen up, will you? It's Christmas."

"I will most certainly _not_ loosen up!" England seethed. "How can you be so callous and awful? My people aren't even having the worst time of it – there are places in Europe where people are _starving_ because of what Germany's nutjob boss is doing and you think this is alright?"

America shrugged.

"_I'm_ not on rationing," he said. "I'm neutral."

"That's not the—"

"Look, stow the 'tude, Scrooge," America said irritably; he speared a piece of turkey with his fork and put it in his mouth. "I went to a lot of trouble over this, okay? The least you can do is eat and _pretend_ to like it."

"It's not the food, it's your frankly unbelievable mind-set," England said incredulously. "America, I know you're neutral, for fuck's sake, but that doesn't mean that this isn't your problem."

"Huh." America chewed thoughtfully on a roast potato. "That's funny – it sure seems that way to _me_. I mean, there's a whole ocean between the war and me."

"It's not going to stay in Europe," England replied coldly, putting down his fork, "and _especially_ not if you keep me here. I need to go home and help my people fight off Germany. If the Nazis manage to take my land—"

"Naw, you need to stay here with me." America smiled at him across the table. "We have a good time, you and I."

"America—"

"Besides, I don't want you getting hurt again. I'd prefer you to be here where you're safe and I can look after you."

"_You can't keep me here!_" England burst out in frustration.

"I've kept you here so far," America pointed out pleasantly.

"My god, what the hell is _wrong_ with you?" England cried, losing his rag.

America blinked at him.

"England," he said quite seriously, "you're my boyfriend. I love you. What do you expect me to do?"

"I expect you to not be a fucking moron and realise that this nonsense isn't helping anyone, least of all _me_!" England seethed.

"Well, sure it is." America beamed again. "You're not hurt." He pouted just as suddenly, playing with his food. "I'm just trying to help, you know."

"If you want to help, get all your planes and tanks under your arm and come join in," England growled. "God knows I could do with the back-up since that useless frog lay down like a doormat for Germany's jackboots."

"I don't think so," America said sweetly. He pushed up his glasses, meeting England's gaze. "I'm not going anywhere near any European war, not after last time – and neither are you, England. I'm not having you getting hurt again, even if it means keeping you here like a prisoner. As long as you're safe, I don't care what you think of me – so stop your bitching and eat your dinner."

Furious and exasperated, England fell silent, picking at his meal. He'd had this exact same conversation with America many times before, of course, all to no avail whatsoever. It wasn't that America was actually stupid half the time, England knew – it was that he _chose_ to be oblivious, to be obtuse and stubborn and single-minded.

Surely _even_ America knew how out of hand this war was getting.

America suddenly held something up, grinning.

"Hey, look, I got the wishbone outta the turkey!" he chirped; he held it out across the table. "Pull it with me, England!"

"No," England said icily.

"Oh, come on! Don't be such a spoilsport!"

Grudgingly, England took part of the slimy bone between his fingertips and pulled sharply; the bone snapped and he was left holding the half which carried the wish.

America grinned at him.

"Good for you," he said happily. "I'm glad you got it, England, because I don't really need it."

"And why is that?" England asked coldly, disgustedly dropping the piece of bone onto his still-full plate.

America lowered his voice, leaning across the table though to whisper a secret:

"Because I've already got what _I_ want."

* * *

...Ughhhhh. It's 3am here. I didn't finish work until 10pm and had to write this when I got home. It probably wouldn't have taken so long except BBC3 decided to show _The Nightmare Before Christmas_ at midnight and I _tried_ not to watch it but you don't ignore Mr Tim Burton.

ONE MORE TO GO, U GAIZ~

xXx


	6. Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas

Ladies and gentlemen, it is the 24th December (...or technically the 25th here in the UK) and we have reached the end of this little collection of mine. With the Top Five votes done and dusted, all that is left is for me to present you with a "secret" prompt, one which didn't appear on the poll, to round us off nicely. To sum it up briefly, I would describe it as 'Christmas Eve in a newly-liberated French town'. I hope you all enjoy it!

Thanks to: **Pandora of Ithilien, Isa-chan, callinthetides, Random Fangirl Number 37, rein hitomi, This Could Theoretically Be Sparta, IrisWill, Laurelleaves, nadrixam, sabacat, Fleur de Londres, bleach-otaku** and **Ellenthefox** (and **Haku** again for your FB squeeing, haha).

_Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas_: This seasonal favourite first appeared in the 1944 MGM musical _Meet Me In St Louis_, sung by Judy Garland's character Esther. Though the film is set in St Louis, Missouri, in 1904, the song was written with the war in mind, with lines like 'Someday soon we all will be together' and 'Faithful friends who are dear to us/will be near to us once more' making it extremely popular with both soldiers fighting a long way from home and their families waiting for them.

Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas

The church was filled to the brim with soldiers. It was ancient – crooked and quaint with the antiquity of its design – and the old stone walls and brilliant stained glass windows spoke of a great many things, knew so much more than this war even if those it held within its safe embrace did not. The men huddled in silence and prayed for peace but they did not know famine or plague, nor indeed the toil of medieval life, of hard unforgiving earth and less water than could be spared.

All they knew was this war – and that they wanted it to be over.

1944; and it was Christmas Eve – or, more precisely, Christmas Day, the early hours of. For six long, hard, crippling months they had fought their way through France, taking it back bit by bit starting with a scattering of beaches, the closest ones to the edge of Britain. By late December, they had Paris – and more than Paris, they had tiny medieval towns like this one with which to fill their victorious pockets.

Tonight everything had halted; they had stopped pushing forward, coming to rest wherever they landed. Even those soldiers who were not particularly devout or even religious gravitated towards the churches on this night, seeking the silence and the calm and the safety that they offered so that the midnight masses were crowded with France's saviours. Here, too, were the four of them: America, Canada, France himself and England, lined up on the back bench in the midst of their jumbled, exhausted men.

The mass was in French, of course, though the priest was aware of the vast numbers of English-speaking soldiers in his congregation and was making allowances and edits where he could, repeating things in English and noting that some of the carols to accompany the service would be sung in English, too. The sound of _O Little Town of Bethlehem_ arched towards the small church's high ceiling, sounded lustily by the voices of young men who wanted to go home and curling like smoke in every tiny nook – this was in English, a little clumsy, and England looked at the two of his companions he was sitting between.

On his right was France, who sat in silence with his head so deeply bowed that his blonde hair fell forward and curtained his face from view; he had a string of battered wooden rosary beads threaded between his worn fingers, his thumb followed the shape of them in an absent-minded chase. France was such a lecherous piece of work that England often forgot that he was also a deeply religious man, Catholic through to the bone even if he was quiet about it.

On his left was America, sitting bolt upright with his back straight, his hands clasped together and his eyes intent on the priest. America was not a Catholic, though he had never quite decided which other sect of Christianity to belong to, but he was listening to the service, to the hymns, with rapt interest. He was so enthralled that he had quite forgotten, it seemed, to take off his overseas hat, which was still perched at its precise angle atop his blonde head.

England, who had a church named after him and hadn't been a Catholic since Henry VIII had fallen out with the Pope in 1534, tried his best to sit still and not be bored. He spared a glance at Canada on France's right, finding him to even be _singing_ the hymn, and rolled his eyes. He'd never had much patience for Catholic services himself and was surprised, quite frankly, that _America_ was sitting so still.

He took another look at America, who didn't appear to notice his attention; the lad, though not singing, was listening to his men sing instead, his head a little to one side as though hearing the lyrics for the first time. He looked unspeakably lovely in the dancing light of the advent candles lining the church walls, handsome and perfected by a sense of duty – and sad, too, so _so_ sad, his hands locked together in what was perhaps prayer, perhaps pain. England had never seen him quite like this before and wanted to reach for him and touch him, to brush his cheek, to stroke his hair, to slip his hand into his, just to say that he was there, that it was okay, but he didn't dare. He felt, almost, that America would shatter if he so much as nudged him, perhaps burst into bubbles and be gone on the night air.

So he clenched his fists on his lap and listened himself to _O Little Town of Bethlehem_. He noticed that some of the men – _more_ than some – were in tears, young boys in army uniforms bedecked with medals crying in silence.

_Yet in thy dark streets shineth the everlasting Light; the hopes and fears of all the years are met in thee tonight—_

And he understood.

—

"It was written by an American," France said as they all crowded out of the church.

"What was?" England asked idly, pulling his thick wool army-issue coat around himself to shut out the bitter December cold.

"_O Little Town of Bethlehem_." France grinned at England's expression. "You truly did not know?"

England cleared his throat.

"I did not," he admitted. He glanced at America himself, who was several feet ahead of them swinging off Canada's arm. "One of his, hmm?"

"It would appear so, mon cher." France shivered. "Come, we should return to the Jeep and go back to the camp. It is growing very cold."

"What, aren't we even going for a sodding drink?" England asked incredulously.

France shot him an irritated look.

"It is past one in the morning at Christmas," he said dryly. "Nowhere is open, I am afraid. You will have to go without."

England snorted.

"Typical," he groused. "Well, it's my own fault, I suppose. I don't know what I was expecting in this backwater cesspool."

France merely smirked, allowing England to dig his own grave and bury himself with that one. A tiny village though it may have been, it was one of France's very oldest and finest, beautiful in everything it had to offer; it looked rather like something out of a fairytale, all winding cobbled streets and old buildings with wooden frames warped by age. It was a clear night, moonlit and still, and the old wrought-iron street lamps flared against the silver-lit sky with a certain Gothic splendour. It had been taken by the Nazis in 1941 and had been liberated at long last – in December, 1944 – by the Allies not three days before. In spite of its ordeal, it had little mark to show for it, forever a small and sleepy jewel in the heart of France.

"Alright, then," England went on crossly. "Where did America park the bloody Jeep? Let's just go back to the camp and I'll get drunk there instead."

"That is what I suspected."

"Shut up, frog." England looked ahead towards America, who was with Canada still, one arm slung boisterously around his twin's neck. "...America seems rather preoccupied with Canada tonight, don't you think?"

"Ah." France smirked. "Are you jealous that he has for once directed his attention elsewhere?"

England scowled.

"Not at all," he retorted waspishly. "It's nice to see him pay attention to poor Canada now and then. It's just..." He gave a little sigh. "...I don't know, he seems... _different_ tonight. He's... he's been a little odd recently, don't you think?"

France gave a knowing smile.

"He is growing up at long last," he said gently. "Or, rather, this war has made him grow up very quickly." He, too, glanced at the twins. "It is not a bad thing. He has been very afraid for a long time but I do believe that he is finally learning to cope with it. You will see, Angleterre – he will emerge very strong from this. You will be proud of him."

—

"It was a nice service, wasn't it?"

England, who had been smoking (leaning against the Jeep back at the camp), turned towards America in surprise.

"You frightened the life out of me," he coughed irritably. "What are you doing out here? I thought you were going to bed after that third sherry."

"Thought I'd come keep you company first. It _is_ Christmas, after all. I feel bad leaving you out here to rot all by yourself."

"It's only _just_ Christmas," England corrected, tossing his cigarette to the ground and stamping it out. "Besides, I'm finished."

"Then _you_ keep _me_ company for a bit," America insisted, propping himself against the Jeep's robust body and sticking his hands in his pockets. He was silent for a long moment, then nudged England with his elbow and nodded towards the small town, the lit church still bright like a flame in the distance. "Swell view, isn't it?"

"It is," England agreed, sighing. His breath clouded in front his face as he spoke. "...America, are you... _alright_?"

America blinked at him, looking surprised.

"Of course," he replied. "Why do you ask?"

"Well, it's just that you seem a bit... preoccupied."

"Sure I am!" America exclaimed. "There's a lot of stuff going on around here, after all."

"I... I suppose—"

"But _this_," America went on. He nodded again towards the tiny town they had liberated. "This is just something for me – so that I can _remember_, you know?"

"Remember what?" England asked, frowning.

"Remember that there is still good in the world," America said, smiling at him. He reached for England's hand and wound their chilled fingers together. "Because some of the stuff I've seen out here... I forget. I forget that there is still kindness and love and hope. Even when I look at _you_, sometimes I forget."

England smiled weakly, unhappily, and laid his head on America's shoulder.

"That's because you're growing up," he said softly. "Sometimes we forget, the older we get, how to be kind to one another. That is why there are so many wars." He gave a deep sigh. "It's just an endless cycle of wars because we don't how to be kind or to be happy."

"That's why I need to remind myself," America replied. "I need to know that it's still there in human hearts, however slight. Seeing the men altogether in that church, with some of them in tears... It made me realise that they're good men and that this needs to end. I don't want there to be any more fighting, any more killing. I want everyone to go home safe to their family and friends and for there to be nothing like this ever again."

"My," England said dryly, rolling his eyes, "you _are_ optimistic."

"I don't need to be," America said, squeezing England's hand. "One of my fellas, Phillip Brookes, already put the words right in my mouth: Where Charity stands watching and Faith holds wide the door; the dark night wakes, the glory breaks—"

England smiled against America's broad shoulder, watching Christmas Day dawn behind the tiny church in France's freed heart.

"—And Christmas comes once more."

* * *

I did it. I got them all done. I don't know HOW I did it but I did it. Yaaaaaaaaaaay~!

...I'm sure as hell suffering for it now, though. I only got four hours sleep last night before traipsing back into work again and now it's past 3am once more; seriously, I couldn't give two hoots about presents at the moment, I am having a fucking lie-in tomorrow, I can tell you that now. XD

HOWEVER, despite this having – as I predicted – near killed me, I feel that it was worth it. You have all been wonderfully supportive and very very kind and I would just like to thank each and every one of you, be you a reviewer or simply a silent reader, for your time this week. I am very happy that people have enjoyed this so much and I assure you that every single one of your comments has been very deeply appreciated. Thanks also to everyone who voted on the poll initially – I couldn't have done it without you, obviously! :3

Please do all have a very Merry Christmas tomorrow – or, if you don't celebrate, simply have a very lovely 25th December! Thank you so much!

RobinRocks xXx

(_O Little Town of Bethlehem_ was indeed written by an American pastor by the name of Phillip Brookes. He was from Philadelphia and wrote the song as a poem in 1858 after a visit to Bethlehem three years before. Ikr? I had no idea either!)


End file.
